


Repetition

by Mapon



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Drabble Sequence, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-26
Updated: 2012-09-26
Packaged: 2017-11-15 01:40:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/521755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mapon/pseuds/Mapon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles knows you can't teach an old dog new tricks. Even when it's obvious, Derek can't seem to realize what's going on. Sterek.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Repetition

**Author's Note:**

> Fluffy, drabble Sterek. Maybe a tiny bit of Stydia if you squint and turn your head and look really, really hard, but not really at all. Some angst/teenage frustrations. Comments are always appreciated.

“Every time we’re in a room alone your heartbeat speeds up,” Derek says. He leans against the back of the flimsy plastic chair Allison had brought to the Hale house when they began having regular meetings there. Stiles swallows, his throat clicking, and tries to maintain eye contact with the werewolf.

                “You know I think that’s the longest sentence I’ve ever heard from you,” he jokes. The plastic chairs are distinctly uncomfortable, even more so by the sweat suddenly coating his hands where he grips the edge. “Less of a sourwolf, huh?”

                Derek rolls his eyes, stands up, and leaves. “Whatever.”

***

The next time they’re alone, Stiles had just found Derek strung up in some bug-human’s nest and is desperately trying to cut the web tying the alpha up. He can feel his heart in his throat, but his palms aren’t sweaty and he’s making progress as he tries to free Derek. The werewolf is barely conscious. When Stiles finally cuts him down, the larger man collapses onto him, almost knocking Stiles over.

                “Whoa!” he cries. Derek huffs out a breath against his neck and ineffectually tries to stand.

                “Your heart’s beating fast again,” he says.

                “’Thank you, Stiles’. That’s what you meant,” Stiles grumbles before dragging Derek’s heavy, useless body out of the hellish nest and to freedom.

***

Lydia is in the hospital again. Natural risk of hanging out with a hunter is you may be shot at or attacked. Derek hadn’t bothered to let Allison or Lydia know about the latest monstrous attack in Beacon Hills, and by the time Scott had told his girlfriend – Stiles can’t think about it, can’t even look at Lydia as she lays unconscious in an ICU room. He can feel Derek behind him, tense.

                “Seriously, what is wrong with you?” Stiles murmurs as he walks past the werewolf. The other man places a giant hand on Stiles’ chest and makes him stop – not because he wants to but because that hand is dangerous. His body shakes with stress and fear and Derek backs away.

                There’s a moment when it seems like Derek will apologize, but he doesn’t.

                “Yeah, okay,” Stiles says, eyes focused in front, refusing to look at the alpha. “Okay.”

                He doesn’t talk to Derek after that.

***

Scott plots against him though. A few months later he abandons Stiles at the Hale house with Derek – it just makes Stiles tired and he tries to leave as quickly as he can.

                “Your heart’s beating faster again.”

                Stiles swears he hears the audible crack of his nerves snapping. He doesn’t turn around, he faces the door, but he clenches his fists tight at his sides. His jaw feels breakable with the pressure of grinding his teeth.

                “Can’t teach a dog new tricks, I guess,” he mumbles, “’cause that’s all you ever say.”

                “You’re never around,” Derek points out, voice tinted with irritation.

                Stiles does look back then, but he can’t summon an expression of anger. “You’re an idiot.” He hopes it’s the last thing he’ll say to Derek. For a while.

***

The wolf shows up after school the next day. Stiles waits until the man’s given up before he heads home.

                Derek shows up there an hour later. By that time Stiles figures it’s okay to get really mad, because stalker shit is _not okay_. And Derek has no concept of personal spaces so he just walks right into the house and knocks on Stiles’ door. It’s marginally better than crawling in through the window.

                “…Stiles,” Derek says when Stiles doesn’t open the door or even respond. “I know you’re in there.”

                “And you are earning your creep card slowly but surely,” Stiles calls from the other side, sitting in bed. “Seriously, dude, following me here?”

                “I didn’t follow you,” Derek growls. “It just made sense you’d be here.”

                “Could have rung the doorbell. Like a normal person.”

                “Seriously…” Derek sighs. “What’s wrong with you?”

                “Fuck you, Derek Hale,” Stiles sing songs. “Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck you.”

                For minutes Stiles lays on his bed, staring at the ceiling and convinced Derek is gone. It’s perfectly quiet apart from his breathing after all.

                Then Derek says, “I’m sorry.”

                “For what?” Stiles asks, no hesitating, not buying the apology. Derek’s voice was too resentfully deep.

                More silence, then, “For not helping Lydia.”

                “Yeah,” Stiles says. His heart sinks. “I’m sorry too. She’s okay now though. She’s really strong, you know?”

                Derek shifts uncomfortably against the closed door, causing it to creak. “So…”

                But Stiles keeps on staring at the ceiling until he’s sure Derek has really left.

***

The next time, Stiles is in bed again, but now he’s having trouble breathing. His body is flushed hot with a fever. He can feel it perfectly – everything, each labored breath, each heartbeat, and he can hear his father talking worriedly with Scott’s mother. He can even feel Scott hovering by the door. But he can’t open his eyes. Everything is dark.

                “He got sick with a cold, I thought. Now he won’t wake up,” his father says. Stiles feels the bed depress as Ms. McCall sits beside him. Her fingers prod and poke. Worry is a tangible presence in the room.

                “…I don’t know,” she finally says, quiet and hushed. “We should probably take him to the hospital.”

                Scott leaves – his presence is suddenly absent, vanished, and next Stiles knows he’s riding in a gurney into a sterile hospital room. He sleeps, not wanting to hear anymore, not wanting to experience the hospital more than he has to.

                When he wakes, Scott is back – and Derek is with him. Scott reaches out to touch him but holds back.

                “He smells wrong, Derek,” Scott says. His voice cracks.

                Derek is silent as he walks to the hospital bed, eventually sitting on it after stinking the room up with tense anxiety. Stiles wants to tell him to chill out. He stays as far away as he can from Stiles’ body.

                “What’s _wrong_?” Scott bites out.

                “…he got infected,” Derek breathes. “Last week. The rat,” he adds before Scott can ask for clarification. “I’ll have to talk to Peter.”

                When they bring the special disinfectant and smear over his arm–Stiles will call it the cure-all for any scratches, nips, and gnaws caused by oversized rat men – Stiles wakes up and immediately pukes all over the hospital floor. Derek catches him before he rolls off the bed into the vomit.

                The werewolf sighs against him. “Your heart is back to normal.”

                Stiles is too weak to tell him to shut up.

***

“It’s beating faster again,” Scott whispers to him after graduation night, when they’re headed to dinner at a shitty diner and planning what parties to hit. His best friend pushes him toward the booth softly. “Just do it already.”

                “I have standards, you know,” Stiles protests, but he won’t remove his eyes from Derek as the man lounges in their extra wide booth. That’s as much as he can say before Scott vanishes, bastard that he is.

                Derek stares at him, eyes tired and body withdrawn. They stare at each other for a moment longer before Derek snaps the menu open and buries his face in it. Stiles has only just settled into his seat when Derek says, “Your heart. It’s doing the thing again.”

                For a second Stiles wants to make fun of Derek’s perpetual inability to speak clearly, but instead he says, “Yeah. I know,” and feigns interest in the menu.

                “Why?” Stiles can barely see Derek’s furrowed eyebrows over the top of the menu.

                “Because I like you, you sourwolf,” he responds, voice neutral and blank like unpainted walls. Derek drops the menu to stare again. His foot twitches and the whole table jumps with it. They stare, all over again, until Stiles can’t take it and looks back at the menu.

                “So I’m getting an omelet, how about you?” Stiles squawks out right as Derek says, “Will it give you a heart attack if I kiss you?”

                “Uh,” Stiles starts, letting the menu fall from his limp hands, “uh, is that a joke?”

                “Sort of. I don’t want to kill you.”

                “You’re shitting me.”

                “What?” Derek growls, visibly frustrated.

                “I don’t – what are you – talk normally!” Stile splutters.

                “Talking is hard!” Derek spits, almost yanking the menu over his face again in defense. He catches himself, glares at the offending object, and slams it on the counter before grabbing Stiles arm and tugging him close. “Look,” he growls then stops. “Talking’s hard,” he repeats, quieter.

                And then he’s leaning in, closer, he’s – oh shit, he’s – and Stiles feels his heartbeat go crazy and hears himself say, “Jesus Christ,” right before Derek kisses him.

                His heartbeat finally, finally slows down.

 


End file.
